By the sandy Hodza river,
Bright as mackerel in the sunshine,
Brighter than a string of opals;
White against the emerald background,
Ruined villages were dotted
With their vineyards and their orchards:
Brest and Nikolic and Palmis,
Bulamac and Akindzali.
There were woods and shady copses
And a line of tidy poplars,